Longfellow

The winds have talked with him confidingly;

The trees have whispered to him; and the night

Hath held him gently as a mother might,

And taught him all sad tones of melody:

The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,

In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,

Hath told him all her sorrow and delight —

Her legends fair — her darkest mystery.

His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;

Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings

Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,

Are mingling with the tender songs he sings —.

Nor shall he cease to sing — in every lay

Of Nature's voice he sings — and will alway.